


The Way We Are in the Dark

by rubygirl29



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, No Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-14
Updated: 2012-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 08:27:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint takes his protection duty very seriously for more reasons than he's willing to admit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way We Are in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: This started as part of a Kissing meme, but it grew into a fic. There are no spoilers in this story, so read without fear!

It began in Termez, at least that's what Clint tells himself, this near obsession to make sure that Phil Coulson is safe, even after he rescues Coulson and they return safely to a secret S.H.I.E.L.D base in Afghanistan. Terrorists have no respect for borders, and Natasha has discovered that there is a price on Coulson's head. Technically, she shouldn't have told Clint, but she felt he ought to be included on the 'need to know' list, risking Hill's and Fury's censure. She isn't sure they are taking the threat seriously. 

Clint takes it seriously, even in the chilly rain that slides down the collar of his jacket and soaks his jeans below the knees. An umbrella is not an option. He hunkers down, peering into the night at the building across the street. Phil's lights are off, but Clint can see the flickering of the TV screen -- probably some god-awful reality show that Phil is addicted to and Clint abhors. However, he finds Coulson's fascination with the weird antics of 'real' people, amusing and somehow endearing.

Clint shivers as the wind kicks up. It's not good shooting weather. Not even for Uzbek assassins. The TV continues to flicker, but a movement in the shadows on the street makes Clint take notice. He pulls out his bow, he doesn't use his sight for aim -- his instincts are better than that -- but he wants to be sure that he isn't about to shoot another S.H.I.E.L.D agent. 

The man is sloppy. He pulls out a cigarette -- a cheap, Russian smoke that leaves an acrid taint in the air. _Idiot_ , thinks Clint. He draws his bow. A hand on his shoulder has him whirling around, only to find Phil standing behind him. He's wearing a dark blue waterproof jacket over a faded F.B.I. sweatshirt and jeans. Clint stares at him stupidly. "H-how ...?

"Shhh." Phil's eyes are crinkling at the corners. "Come in from the rain, Clint. That fellow's not going anywhere."

"He's Uzbek," Clint reminds him. "This weather is nothing to him." His eyes narrow. "You called me Clint."

"Come inside." Phil turns, smiles. "You know you want to know how I got here."

He follows him down an iron ladder into ... a tunnel. There is a freaking tunnel between the two buildings. "Why?" Clint asks.

"Prohibition. This building used to be a bootleggers warehouse. My building was the disbursement point."

"Interesting."

Coulson gives him a small, secretive smile. "It's effective."

They reach a rusty but sound iron door that Coulson unlocks with an old-fashioned key. It turns soundlessly. "Who else has a key?" Clint asks suspiciously.

"Nobody. It's one of Fury's protection protocols -- which begs the question, why are _you_ here?"

"I'm one of Fury's protocols?" Clint guesses rather vaguely.

"Lying is not your strong suit, Agent Barton."

His whole life has been a lie, Clint thinks, but he doesn't say that because when he looks at Phil, his blue eyes are soft and amused. They are standing no more than six inches apart. He can feel the warmth of Coulson's body eddying towards his skin; seductive and comforting at the same time. 

Clint takes a step closer, drawn by the heat, the scent. He wants to make the first move, seriously, but Coulson beats him to it. He takes Clint's face between his hands, his thumbs resting on the pulse points at his jaw. Clint is a scant two inches taller, but for this, he bends, letting Coulson's hands cradle him. Neither of them blink, though Phil's eyes are slightly dilated. He brushes his lips across Clint's. 

"Your lips are cold," he whispers. 

"They don't have to be." 

Phil's lips close over his softly. They are incredibly warm and the slight prickle of his five o'clock shadow teases Clint's upper lip. He would wrap Phil in his arms, but he is aware that he is soaked and cold. No reason for them both to be chilled through. 

Phil steps back. "Maybe you should come up to my place before you get hypothermia. That is unless you like being cold, wet and miserable."

"No. Warm, dry and comfortable wins every time." He's having a hard time breathing. "What about the Uzbek?"

"Ah, the lot of an assassin is not a happy one. I think we'll just let him be miserable while we ... aren't."

He smiles at Clint, who can't help smiling back. Phil's fingers thread through his. "Why did it take so long to get to this point?" he muses.

"We've been busy." Phil replies. 

He opens his door. The room is dark and the windows are streaked with rain. Clint holds Phil back while he ghosts across the floor and looks outside. The Uzbek is standing in the rain, looking hunched and chilled. Clint cautiously draws the drapes over the glass, making them invisible. 

Coulson stands beside him in the darkness. "He's going to have a long night." 

"Is that a promise?" Clint leans in, breathes the scent of Phil's shampoo. "I probably shouldn't go out there." 

Phil's ghost of laughter mocks his feigned reluctance. "No. You shouldn't. But you should get out of those wet clothes. You're dripping on the floor." He vanishes into the bedroom and returns a few minutes later. "Sweats are on the bed."

Clint takes advantage of the shower, steaming away the chill in his muscles and bones. The sweats are long enough, and loose enough around the shoulders to make Clint wonder who they belong to -- they aren't Phil's. 

He comes out and finds Phil pouring two glasses of Woodford Reserve Bourbon. Phil is a contradiction. He eats junk food but drinks good coffee and great bourbon. His casual wardrobe is off-brand jeans or regulation sweats, but he likes cashmere sweaters and Dolce suits. Clint is intrigued. He always has been. 

Phil looks up and offers him a glass. Two ice cubes, no more. He sips the sweet, smoky liquor. He knows better than to bolt it down -- that's for the bottom shelf stuff he usually drinks. Phis is watching him. Clint takes another sip. "The sweats fit," he says casually, the question implied. 

Phil sighs. "I suppose you want the whole story?"

"You don't have to tell me everything." _I don't tell you everything_. "I like a man with secrets." He's flirting, but his heart is pounding. 

"I'm not a monk. S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't require celibacy."

"Did something happen to him?"

"No. He's alive and well and living in Paris ... Texas. He left the Bureau and went off with a rodeo cowboy. He said I was too dull."

Clint has to laugh. "Dull?"

Coulson shrugs. "He called it as he saw it."

Clint puts his glass down and reaches for Phil. "I'm sorry," he says. 

"We were near the end," Phil shrugs. "I thought he was dull, too. I'm not keeping the sweats for sentimental reasons, if that's what you're thinking."

"Then why?"

"Because I knew when we met that they might come in handy someday."

What else can Clint do but kiss him? This isn't a quick meeting of lips in a stairwell, surprise and pleasure mingled. This kiss is an intense, sensual exploration. It is mouth molding to mouth, learning contours and curves, the hint of a smile, the taste of whisky and mint, the slide of tongue against tongue. Coulson sighs into Clint's mouth and he sags slightly against his body. Clint tightens him hold, feeling the press of thighs against his own, the heat and hardness of Phil. Not celibate, but not exactly sexually active, either. Not that he's been on the prowl much since Natasha. 

Somehow, they both ended up at the same place, at the same time. Outside, the rain is falling on an unhappy assassin watching a dark apartment. He'll either give up, get pneumonia, or die in the small hours of the dawn if he's too stubborn or too stupid to leave. 

Meanwhile, Clint is warm and dry and invisible to the night. He has an armful of Phil Coulson and a bottle of top shelf bourbon. This is as good as it gets in his life. He is not going to waste it. 

He tongues the side of Phil's neck, nips at the flesh above his collar bone. "You have a bed?" He asks, feeling Phil smile against his cheek. 

"I don't sleep in the rafters like some people I know."

"I don't sleep," Clint objects. "I watch." 

Coulson runs light fingers across Clint's eyelids. "Tonight, you sleep."

Clint raises a brow and captures Phil's hands. "I kinda had other plans."

"Sleep later, then."

"Much later." He nuzzles Phil's neck. 

"Are you going to play or are you going to ravish me?"

Clint laughs. "Ravish. Definitely ravish." They stumble into the bedroom and fall onto the big, soft mattress, which is another surprise. They kiss in the darknes. Another storm rolls in; lightning, thunder, wind. Clint gives a brief thought to the unhappy assassin outside. This ... this is better ... all thought leaves him as they kiss, warm and safe in each other's arms as they haven't been safe in a very long time.

**The End**

 

 


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